[back to guest columns] HOW I BECAME AN ATHEIST ACTIVIST -- AND ACTUALLY HAD A PRETTY GOOD TIME... by Carol Bachelder December 1, 1999 Well, the media got what they wanted on November 27, 1999. They had been beating the drum for two weeks urging the faithful to turn out for the rally to support the Table Rock Cross. I had hoped Christmas shopping might lessen their numbers, but there they were, 10,000 strong, surging down Capitol Boulevard from the train depot. At the other end of their march was the state capitol building, waiting with speakers and a public address system. I was also waiting with my handmade signs -- two signs, actually, connected with straps over my shoulders, designed like a sandwich board. Both sides were the same, a cross in the middle of a circle with a slash across it. My crosses bore little resemblance to the plain looking cross on the hill. They were medieval-looking, and they showed blood dripping off them. I actually wondered if people would be able to tell what they were, but the Christians were smart enough for that, anyway. Actually, they were quite offended, to my surprise and delight. I had several “spirited” discussions, but fortunately no fist fights. I gave several people a crash course in atheism that day. One thing that helped me was that there was a uniformed police office in the intersection where I walked back and forth. There is an island in the middle of Capitol Boulevard between Idaho and Bannock, and another island between Bannock and Jefferson. The latter has a little plot of ground called Stunnenburg Park, because there is a statue of past governor Frank Stunnenburg there. I figured the crowd would split at the first island and wouldn’t converge before passing on both sides of the second island. I had scoped out this location two days before the march. I had even figured out where I would park and what time I had to get there. I had worked on my sign for two days. I was ready! Purely by coincidence, at that intersection where three men who looked to be “in charge,” and one was a uniformed policeman. I marched back and forth right in their line of vision. The really incredible thing was the huge grin on the face of the policeman; every time I looked at him, he was grinning, sometimes looking at me and sometimes look at the marchers. Whether this was for me or for the marchers, I didn’t care. I even though that maybe it was a contrived thing, to lighten the mood a little, because some people really looked as if they might like to take a swipe at me or jostle me a little. I kept checking his face, but it seemed like a genuine grin, and I felt like I had my very own uniformed “guardian angel.” I did get cat calls and numerous comments. I regard situations like this as training opportunities for thinking up snappy replies. I got a few boos, fairly hostile sounding, and to these I said: “I can tell you’re a good Christian.” People said inane things like, “I’ll pray for you” and “Jesus loves you.” To the former I replied, “Don’t waste your time,” and to the latter I said, “So you say” or “I doubt it” in a bored-sounding tone. These simple retorts were surprisingly effective in making people shut up, or maybe it was the presence of the grinning policeman. I did make one comment that in retrospect I consider over the line, when one woman said, “That’s your opinion.” In itself, that isn’t offensive, but she said it in a nasty way that riled me a little. I fired back, “Opinions are like assholes -- everybody’s got one,” and I held my breath wondering what her response would be. Wonder of wonders, she grinned. She even murmured, “That’s true,” and went on. My guardian policeman wasn’t far away. I was afraid he might not approve of my language. As intense as it was watching thousands of Christians stream by, it got even more heated at the Statehouse steps. The speakers were pandering to the crowd, naturally, and I finally decided to speak out. I thought, “Well, as long as I’m here, I might as well make myself heard.” I’ve done a number of protests for animal rights and gun control, and I’ve put up with a lot of hecklers, but I have never been a heckler myself. So I decided, “Well, other people do it. I’ll do it too.” When the poor woman spoke whose son Paul Reyna died at football practice at Boise State University, she was saying how her son decided to choose Boise State because he saw the Table Rock cross and took it as an omen. Unbelievably, I yelled “The cross killed your son.” After that, I got a little rowdy. Idaho State Lieutenant Gov. Butch Otter was telling the crowd how the sale of land under the cross was perfectly legal, and I shouted out, “But there was only one bidder.” Even Christians know that’s illegal. Every devout Christian. I was getting dirty looks, but no one hit me, so I kept on. Idaho Senator Larry Craig said that the Idaho delegation would fight for the cross, and I replied loudly, “That’s illegal.” I was, admittedly, being an annoyance, but I was starting to have a pretty good time. I had a little trouble with a small group of youngsters standing right behind me who started a noisy prayer for my benefit. It was the only time I got a bit unpleasant. I turned around and snapped, “Look, there are 10,000 of you here and only one of me. Leave me alone.” They looked hurt, so I tried to soften it by saying, “I’m trying to listen to these speakers, if you don’t mind.” That seemed to mollify them. Maybe they thought listening to the speakers would put some sense into me! As I left the area carrying my sign, I headed down to a sidewalk that cut diagonally across a small park next to the Capitol grounds. A nicely dressed man actually came running across the grass and intercepted me. He introduced himself as an assistant pastor somewhere and, polite at first, started asking me how I could have such beliefs when this great country was founded as a Christian nation. I pointed out that our first six presidents were Deists, not Christians, and he became agitate and started spouting unlikely sounding religious quotes he attributed to these former presidents. I smiled and replied, “You know what happened was that years later these religious sayings were attributed to them, but these things were made up...” He soon left, and I continued on my way. I soon encountered a woman in a wheel chair sitting alone in the middle of the narrow sidewalk. She was decked out with two of the small, handmade wooden cross so popular at this rally. She seemed pleased with my attention, so I felt that I should respond in some way. Faced with the two crosses that had “Save the Cross” stenciled boldly across them, I said “Save...” in a charismatic tone and then dropped my voice, adding “...yourself. God won’t help you.” I didn’t wait around for a response. Anyway, I figured no harm, no foul. They got their 10,000 people, even if they had to bus some of them in, and I got in a few digs. I just hope that my digs are enough to help uproot the 60-foot monstrosity known as the Table Rock Cross. [Editor: Discuss this topic at our special message board]